


and my mind is burning

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [107]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has OCD (Good Omens), Internal Monologue, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Very brief mentions of violence, Whump, like its pure pure PURE undiluted projection, nice to know thats a tag now, this will make no sense to anyone without ocd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: and so he has little . . . quirks, he'd call them. things to make it all better, matters of making everything okay again.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [107]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	and my mind is burning

**Author's Note:**

> as stated in tags this is kind of just a venty mess of scrabbled together bullshit i wrote in one sitting to deal w/ ocd lmao enjoy

the bedroom is too cold this morning.

the bed is too cold, the window's too close (letting in a draft, perhaps), and aziraphale simply _cannot_ leave his perch now that he's risen. sitting up with the covers still tucked around his shoulders, counting the faint ticks of his ancient, antique grandfather clock down the hall. he can hear them from here, with his angelic senses. heightened perception, of taste, of smell, of sight - 

he spots a curving shadow out of the corner of his eye, and flinches, though he knows better. it's nothing, he thinks, and then he says it out loud, just to cement the fact.

"it's nothing." he almost sounds like he's speaking to the shadow, telling it off for being such a bother. his voice is faint and wobbly, wavering despite himself. he can't help it. all this fear is so fickle, it comes and goes, and on some days, is entirely uncontrollable. though it's never quite completely gone, aziraphale yearns after the moments where it's overridden by sweet, silent bliss, as opposed to the near-constant buzzing in his head it is currently.

it's about control, really. a means of stealing back command over the situation. he's always been so frightful, ever since he lost the humans - adam and eve, well, they'd been able to look after themselves just fine. but aziraphale couldn't help feeling that if anything _had_ happened to them, it would have been his fault. his failure to protect them in the first place. he'd been appointed guardian, and it all happened so fast, he lost control, he couldn't stop them, and it's not like he blames crowley - no, he couldn't, he was only doing what he'd been told - but he does blame himself. he hadn't stopped them. he hadn't stopped crowley, either. 

it makes him wonder what else might happen, should he let his guard down once more. after all, he's been keeping an eye out for heaven all these years. they only caught on when he let himself get too comfortable, distracted with all the fuss of a nearing armageddon. and it had been him to catch that falling scrap of paper, only by random chance - it had saved their lives! clearly, it's his _duty_ to keep everything in check. even if it means he can't relax, even if he's grown sore in the back of his skull, the burgeoning stress a scab he won't stop picking off, he has to do this. for his sake, for crowley's sake, for _everyone's_ sake.

the thoughts are the worst bit, too. sharp, curving out from some deep, aching pit in his head like a nestled dagger leaving its sheath. it cuts open a wound he has to plug full every single time, always leaving him with something to do, some task to unwind the wretched mental imagery. horrible, _horrible_ thoughts that feel so tangible he often squeezes his eyes shut, winces with the effort of blocking them out.

and so he has little . . . quirks, he'd call them. things to make it all _better_ , matters of making everything okay again. he's relied on them for centuries, millenia at this point. a tap of his knuckles against the wooden table in rome, always with his left hand, to ensure crowley has a safe time with his next temptation. blinking in couplets, in an order that only makes sense to him, during a meeting with gabriel, so that the wind stays steady when he takes flight back to heaven. and it always works, always, except for the times when it _doesn't,_ and aziraphale has to wonder what he's done wrong. how he's failed this time, because it's always a failure, nothing close to a mishap, or a step out of rhythm. no, that would be far too merciful, to consider his wrongdoings _accidents._ if he doesn't do his job correctly, he might as well be sentencing them to their fates. it's just as bad as _wanting_ something terrible to happen, asking for it.

"angel," crowley's voice cracks through his awful train of thought, the one that hasn't stopped reeling off its tracks for a solid ten minutes now. it's so easy to get lost in this, once he dips his toes too far. still, crowley is here now, crowley's a welcome peace, the cool ice to his burning flesh. 

"everything alright, love?" he asks, sitting beside aziraphale on the bed, and curling an arm around him, hand resting on his shoulder. he's fidgeting, tapping his fingers - once, twice, thrice - in a nervous tick of sorts. aziraphale tries not to count the times he pets at him, strokes and soothes and comforts. instead, he sucks down another rotten fear, letting it decompose somewhere hidden, waiting to be tended to later, and leans into crowley.

"perfectly well, dear. and you?"

crowley hesitates, his golden eyes flickering over with a cloudy, visible worry. and his throat sounds tight when he speaks, as if in a drought formed of tension. dry, crackling as he mutters, "are you quite sure, angel?"

another bad thought. this time, of wrapping his hands firm and frightless around crowley's sweet, feeble little neck, and ringing him breathless. aziraphale's eyes sting, tearing up in, what he can only hope, is a less than noticeable way. 

"of course, all perfect - perfectly well with me, dear." he repeats. "why? were you worried about me?"

and he coos, ruffles crowley's hair as the demon starts to blush, making excuses and pushing him off. even then, through the tender softness, the fading morning glow, he can still feel the thoughts budding.

they haven't stopped for anything, why stop for this?

**Author's Note:**

> personally id pay to have the krusty krab theme song playing in my head at all times instead of a debilitating mental illness but yknow u get what u get


End file.
